I stirred the mixture well. Millie looked on with eager eyes.
“I don’t recognize this spell.” Her brows knit together in a puzzled twist.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I nearly forgot the secret ingredient!”
I fished around in the pocket of my cardigan for the third item I had retrieved, and drew out a small bottle filled with a purple liquid.
“Squee!” Millie clapped her hands together and squealed like a schoolgirl.
“What’s that? Extract of Deadman’s Bells? Deadly Nightshade? Twister root?” Her blue eyes twinkled with animated vengeance.
My assistant’s readiness to employ some of the baneful herbs we kept under restrictive lock and key gave me some cause for alarm. I chalked it up to the raw emotion of a bad hair day and held the bottle right in front of her nose.
“The secret…”
“Yes?” She whispered, her eyes as wide as saucers.
“…ingredient…”
“Yes?” She bounced on her toes.
“…is…”
“OH, COME ON, ALREADY!”
“Food coloring.”
I dropped four drops of the colored liquid into the soap mixture and stirred.
“Food coloring?” Millie mumbled. “That’s it?”
“Yup! That’s it.” I replied, swirling the mix into a vibrant purple hue. “Food coloring. And, look at this. Voilà! I give you The Violet Countercharm!”
Millie blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Too much?” I cocked my head. I thought it was kind of an apt name. It’s really just a homemade toner that will knock some of the yellow down in your do. I decanted the formula into a cobalt glass bottle, and stoppered it with a real cork bung.
“Go ahead. Take it home and try it. You’ll be right as rain for tonight. Rad won’t know what hit him.”
I handed her the glass bottle of purple goo. She looked more than a little dubious.
“Really?”
“Really. Now get going, or you’ll run out of time! And I need to close up!” I shooed her out the front door. The bell jingled.
“Thanks, loads, Hattie! Oh my goodness! I almost forgot to tell you! I ordered a new batch of pokeberries. We must have sold out.”
Pokeberries? Someone must be writing some new spells.
For a fleeting moment, my thoughts wandered back to last night’s dream, but I dismissed it just as readily. “Thank you, Millie. That’s perfect.”
Millie waved cheerily. I watched her bounce down the sidewalk. She obviously forgot what she looked like. Bless her.
I smiled, glad to see my assistant with a pep back in her step.
Hm. The Violet Countercharm. Maybe I should start my own beauty line. I have to admit I was pretty pleased with myself. I solved a friend’s problem, and I didn’t have to use a lick of magic. Just some color theory leftover from college art classes and a little ingenuity.
“There’s a little magic in everything if you’ve half a mind to look.” Grammy’s voice drifted on the wind again.
No. I wanted nothing to do with magic. The true variety, anyway. I was perfectly happy employing herbs and other natural remedies to solve life’s little challenges, like the ingredients I’d used in The Violet Countercharm.
But, Grammy’s always been a wise old witch. Magic was going to get Violet Mulberry in a whole host of trouble that night. And, it was going to take more than a food color based countercharm to get her out of it.
2
Double Bubble
He’s a killer.
It’s the first thought that fluttered through my mind as I opened the door and saw him standing there.
It wasn’t that I actually suspected David Trew of being a psychopathic murderer, but it certainly shot an arrow through my heart whenever I saw the devilishly handsome Chief Para Inspector of the Glessie Isle police. Though encroaching upon thirty-five, the good inspector easily shaved a decade or more off his years by maintaining a lean, muscled physique, and his clipped ebony locks betrayed nary a hint of gray. My long-time friend underplayed his appeal, though, hiding behind studious, round-framed glasses. And, a personality so humble, he wouldn’t know a compliment if it hit him in the face.
I yawned quite unexpectedly, exposing my uvula in a most unladylike fashion. David’s cobalt eyes widened.
“Glad to see you, too, Hattie,” he commented, with maybe just a pinch of sarcasm.
I snapped my mouth shut and, sheepishly, I invited him in. “Sorry about that, David. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Well, don’t get too comfy in your favorite P.J.s tonight just yet, either,” he predicted ominously.
“That doesn’t sound promising,” Fraidy meowed tremulously. A murky fog had rolled in over Gless Inlet, and Fraidy was a little edgier than usual.
David let out a moderate yelp as one of my eight feline roommates suddenly materialized between my ankles. “Where did you come from?”
I tried to suppress a giggle. My timorous feline had turned the tables and surprised someone else for a change. “I think he’s been taking lessons from Shade.” I bent down and gave Fraidy a nuzzling kiss to his head.
“Someone mention my name?” Shade emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. As usual, he was slinking about, hugging the dark, and keeping secrets.
“Speaking of shady things, Hattie,” David continued. “That sort of brings up the reason for my visit here, tonight. Spithilda Roach is dead.”
The sour puckered face of my dream! I knew it had looked familiar!
“I knew it! I just knew it!” Fraidy caterwauled. “Just what we need around this town! Another ghost!”
Fraidy tends toward the dramatic. Midnight, on the other hand, seemed pleased as punch at the concept that his curious circle of comrades may have just burgeoned by the count of one. Even as miserable a one as Spithilda Roach.
“How purr-fectly meow-velous!” He slid through the legs of Grammy’s old wingback. “Ghosts make the best gossips! They hear things is the wildest places.”
Fraidy’s claws pin-pricked through the weave of my sock. My face puckered in pain. “Oh, come on now, Fraidy, stop it. People pass on all the time. Not everybody automatically becomes a ghost, you know. It usually only happens in the event of a violent death.”
“Like a murder,” David suggests.
“Exactly!” I agree. “Like a…” My voice trails off.
Murder? I didn’t dream about any murder!
My head swiveled to face David, all hopes for a soothing cup of herbal tea and an early bedtime - a nice, normal night - vanishing like the plumes of steam rising from my boiling tea kettle.
“Oh, no.”
“’Fraid so.”
“Any clue?”
“No more than two.”
“Alright, can it, Thing One and Thing Two.” Gloom, like a little black cloud of misery, padded through the room, morose as usual, and leaped into the wingback. “Kindly take your rhyme time on the road. You’re cutting into my cat nap.” She weaved in a lemniscate pattern before finally settling in to ignore the rest of us.
I turned the fire off below the kettle. The flames were unusually high. I glanced around for Carbon, but this time he wasn’t responsible. Maybe I could talk David out of asking for my assistance on this one. The chief employed plenty of competent witches and wizards on the police department payroll. He certainly could use any one of them and likely they could solve the case quite adequately.
After our last case together, however, Chief Trew firmly believed I was the resident town expert on all things herbal and how they related to magical mayhem. As firmly as I stood against magic and the trouble it could cause, though, I was having a difficult time fathoming his reasoning. Also, if I was to be honest with myself, didn’t I really enjoy this sleuthing business? This piecing together of clues?
“Face it, Hattie. You’re just the Chief’s unique brand of catnip.” Onyx whispered in my ear from his heretofore hidden perch on the mant
el. I huffed in frustration. I hated when Onyx read my mind.
I reached reluctantly for my coat. The temperatures out in The Humps could chill the bones of Lucifer himself. I glanced wistfully at the hot tea kettle sitting on the stove, my empty cup waiting, patiently, on the counter nearby. I may not have dreamed specifically about Spithilda’s murder, but maybe there was something in the dream that might be helpful to the investigation. I came from a long line of witches with prescient abilities. Opal women, on mom’s side, of course, had long been known to have premonitory night visions. Last night’s out-of-body experience could have been just that.
Yay. Lucky me.
I sighed. I suppose when you live in a town permeated by magic, populated with witches, and suffused with spirits, your chances of a “nice, normal night” were somewhere roughly between zero and nil.
“Double, bubble, toil and trouble,” I blurted.
With that, David and I, and, unbelievably, Fraidy, headed into the murky gloom of the outside night.
The Humps, as the small ridge of silicate-cemented crystal quartz and dark, coarse-grained graywacke sandstone was more familiarly known, occupied the dreary foothills of The Spires. The rim rested over a thick layer of dark, plunging, prehistoric steely shale.
The thin valleys between were sparsely dotted with an eclectic assortment of geophysical anomalies. Pine barrens, with their dry, acidic soils, only supported stunted evergreens and a smattering of scrubby, low-lying bushes. Copses of hemlock and other hardwoods bordered the southern end. A variety of nameless caves hid all sorts of dark secrets, some of which would happily have you over for dinner.
There were any number of mucky inland swamps and bogs. The unwary traveler could easily find themselves inextricably mired in an unforgiving morass, or stranded atop a peak of antediluvian bedrock. It seemed like an inhospitable place; having the swamps on one side and the craggy, impossibly high Spires on the other.
As a result, hardly anyone was ever motivated to brave the treacherous journey to Hagsmoor, the remote pitch pine-blueberry peat swamp burrowed in a remote corner of The Humps. It was certainly not on my top ten list of vacation destinations. If current events hadn’t dictated a cozy ride for two on Grammy Chimera’s old bewitched broom, I would have much preferred a jaunt to the more bucolic Vale; the Gorthlands only welcoming piece of topography.
But, morbid motivation and dreary destination aside, I was thoroughly enjoying having David’s arms wrapped snugly around my waist. I’m not so confident he was enjoying Fraidy wrapped snugly around his head, however. You wouldn’t think an immortal mouser would have such an irrational fear. But, there it was.
As I nosed Grammy’s sorghum and birch besom down toward Spithilda’s address, the tabby yowled his distress. “Cats were not meant to fly! Mee-YOWL!!!”
David pulled uselessly at Fraidy’s lanky, fur-covered body. “Of course you were! Why else do you think you were designed to always land on your feet?”
He finally succeeded in prying Fraidy from his face and firmly planted him, like a furry cushion, between us on the broom.
Darn it. Fuzzy third wheel.
I might have second-guessed bringing any of the cats along to a crime scene, especially Fraidy, but they had proven more than a little useful on the Nebula Dreddock case. It was also the reason why the Chief hadn’t balked at our little hitchhiker…well, until he nearly suffocated him, that is. Fraidy yowled again.
“They’re claws, not landing gear. And they’re not designed to stick a four-point landing from a few hundred feet off the ground! Gravity works, in case you didn’t get the memo!”
I stifled a giggle. If his gig as an immortal familiar ever fell through, Fraidy had a promising career as a stand-up comedian.
I brought the broom in for a light landing in a sparse patch of scrubby grasses. David gave a deep, chesty cough.
“Hairball?” I teased. The snarky quip earned me a baleful stare from my oldest and dearest friend. I started to chuckle as David picked a succession of black hairs from his crisp uniform. Suddenly, however, the bubbling laughter fell as dead as a doornail.
You might think my sudden reticence was prompted by the shockingly pallid complexion of Deputy Coroner Muerte from the medical examiner’s office. Hector’s sunken eyes and pasty skin didn’t faze me one bit, however. Zombies just weren’t big suntan aficionados.
Some of the citizens had questioned Chief Trew’s decision to hire the undead for a position with the coroner, especially given their predilection for brains. Hector Muerte, however, like many of the denizens of Glessie Isle, was unique.
He was an undead vegetarian.
He did, however, demonstrate a strange affinity for cauliflower. I supposed it was the cruciferous vegetable’s physical resemblance to brain matter. Personally, I preferred broccoli. To each his own, I supposed.
No. The reason for my shocked silence was the run-down Romani wagon and the body being carried out of it, both of which I, albeit metaphysically, had occupied less than twenty-four hours ago.
Spithilda Roach wouldn’t have won any Miss Congeniality contests. She rarely, if ever, received visitors. She didn’t go to market, choosing instead to subsist on the vast assortment of berries rooted near her domicile: Vaccinium corymbosum, the dark, highbush blueberries; Vaccinium myrtilloides or velvetleaf huckleberry; and Viburnum cassinoides, the northern wild raisin; a fruit as twisted and shriveled as she.
Spithilda only left her pitiful residence when she needed ingredients for her tragic gloomy arts practice. Man, what this witch could screw up in bad magic, she did screw up. I’m only surprised she lived as long as she did. Spithilda’s name appeared more than once in my ledger tracking purchases of baneful herbs. More often than not, her presence in my shop was prompted by a compulsion to correct some egregious magical error – a blackened nose, blistering burns, and once, an unsightly boil that had resulted from a backfired stinging hex. Remulus, her mangy mutt was no less the victim than she. Singed ears, whiskers falling out, blackened tail to name but a few. More than once I found it necessary to send her away with a healing combination of coconut oil, comfrey, and calendula. I didn’t even charge her for the bottle of Lavender essential oil I gave her. I knew it would be helpful in burn relief.
No amount of healing salve, however, was going to urge life back into the cold, dead hand that suddenly slid limply from beneath the white shroud that draped over the gurney. Hector moved with the speed of molasses in January to put it back.
“Gah! It’s alive!” Fraidy leaped into my arms. Hector gave a slo-mo double-take.
“Don’t worry, Hector. He was talking about Spithilda, not you,” I assured the reanimated corpse. He grinned; all gums and blackened enamel.
I turned to my cat. “Fraidy, get a grip. Spithilda is dead. The question is how.”
“My guess is she stopped breathing,” Fraidy retorted. “Now, can we please go before something stops me from breathing? It’s downright creepy out here.”
“No. We have a job to do,” I replied.
As Chief Trew started to stride toward the vardo, I grabbed his arm. I had to tell him about my dream. I was certain I had seen Spithilda crafting some new gloomy spell. Undoubtedly, her intent was to wreak havoc on some poor witch whom she held accountable for some imagined slight.
“David, I’ve been here.”
He turned to me, puzzled. “What? You’ve made deliveries to Spithilda before?”
“No. I mean, yes. But, no that’s not what I mean.”
Chief Trew shook his head in confusion. “I’m not quite following you, Hattie.”
“I’ve been here. In the caravan.”
His brows drew together in a deepening scowl. “Hattie, we just got here.”
“I was here. Last night. In a dream. I think it was a premonition. Like Grammy Chimera used to have. And, my mo…” My voice falls off at the end.
Like I said, the Chief and I go way back. Further than either of us can really remember, truth be tol
d. Magic’s not been a boon companion to either of us, so when I nearly mentioned my departed Mother and her magical gifts, he had cause to sit up and take notice.
“Was it like a scrye spell? Did you see something we can use? Did you see the murderer?”
I shook my head. “That’s just it. I didn’t see anybody. Just Spithilda, writing. And her dog.”
Fraidy gulped hard. “Dog?”
I ignored the world’s yellowest black cat and pressed the Chief. “What makes you think this was murder? Spithilda wasn’t exactly an adept sorceress. It’s highly plausible she botched one of her spells and it simply backfired on her. Midnight Hill’s full of witches and wizards who have bungled their lives with the improper use of magic. You remember Cressida Dreddock, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he replied. It was a little hard to forget Nebula Dreddock’s crazed twin sister from our last case together. Poor dear was consumed with an irrational desire to become her famous sister and drove herself crazy in the magical pursuit of same.
“And, it’s possible that’s all it is, Hattie, but I have my reasons to suspect otherwise,” the Chief sighed.
“This one’s personal. Spithilda is,” he paused and sombrely corrected himself. “Was the aunt of Amber Crystal, my assistant. You remember Amber? You met her when we wrapped up the Nebula Dreddock investigation?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, keeping my voice level. Amber, with her rounded cherub cheeks, and penchant for baked goods from Celestial Cakes, had just recently started working for Chief Trew as his executive assistant. I remember our first (and, last) encounter. I felt sorry for her, but there was also something about her that irritated me beyond belief. And, I didn’t like the way she fawned over the Chief. But, I guess the role of Chief Para Inspector for a good portion of the Coven Isles could be a daunting task. Amber helped keep the Chief organized and on point with any number of important details in his official capacity. Amber was good for the Chief, so I shouldn’t shun that. Without Ms. Crystal, David would be faced with mountains of paperwork and legislative issues. Take, for example; new magical regulations like the restriction of the underage use of invisibility charms. Apparently, there had been a recent rash of locker room peeping toms at the local high school.
The Violet Countercharm: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 2) Page 2
